literature

MY Container

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Literature Text

My Container
(Spring Cleaning)

I reached inside myself.
And without much care or effort,
I removed my brain.

I could see the broken parts.
And all the knowledge it held.
The thing had served me well, as often as it led me astray.
My lies were written on it.
Not on my heart, as I thought.

My ego appeared to be a rotten mold, piercing through my brain, as if it were rot on spoiled fruit.
The gray machine was not very well attached to my mind, so I removed it.
And set it on a bookshelf, where I felt it belonged.

I reached back inside.
Being unable to grasp my mind,
As if it were a lingering mist,
I let it stain my fingers.
But left it mostly alone.

I dipped my hand into the coffer again.
It became tangled in the wires of my voice-box.
I tore the useless instrument out.
For it had rarely played the right notes.
I went out and bought thick paper note books,
And pens, and buckets of India ink to replace it.

Returning again to my chore,
I came upon a giant, bloody organ.
It was twitching and pulsating, and glowing.
It gave off the lowest heat, the bravest light,
And an energy stronger than any I had ever felt.

"Ah, this must be my heart," I said.
I jerked it free of stringy tethers.
It remained functional.
This is how I learned that death occurs primarily in the brain and extremities.
The heart pumped no blood, but I could feel it,
Still loving the whole world.

No lies were stained on it's surface.
Tiny spider-web cracks decorated the whole outside.
"These must be all my heartaches," I thought.
There was no structural damage, which I found reassuring.

And, here, was all the learning, the learning of things I already knew.
The growth, and joy, and harmony were there inside it, too.
There was no fear, or doubt, no inadequacy, or sadness.
There were things unbroken, devotion, faith, love.
Things without reservation, unbridled things.

I regretted not using it more. Not using it better.

But as I had already taken it out of the package,
I put it in a brown box and had it delivered,
Overnight ground to a woman who had no use for it.
And no place to put such a gaudy gift, anyhow.

Plummeting my fist still deeper into the mess,
I came upon a small gray ball.
Held inside it was a miniature figurine of myself.
Only it was myself perfected.
Perfect, not only by my standards, but by the standards of those who loved me,
Of those I loved, by the standards of life, and the Universe.
And perfect by the standards of one whom I could not name.

The figurine spoke to me.
It said, "Put me back and forget you ever saw this."
I did as he asked.

And therefore I was able to settle the great debate on the existence of the soul.
But in doing so, I was unable to tell anyone.

Below the gray ball, my hand gripped a medium-sized rock.
It was invisible when I pulled it up,
But I could feel it.
Rough, jagged, and heavier than lead.
A deep and constant sound emitted from the stone.
It was the sound of wanting, longing, hunger.
It was a beautiful sound, but unbearable,
Now that it was outside its container.
I drove it to the city dump and threw it as far as I could.
Since I have been without it, I realize I am not the Buddha.
I miss that rock more than the dog of my youth.
And I can still hear the sound, no matter how far I get from the dump.

My hand stretched deeper down.
And reached the bottom of my gut.
It stirred about in a thick sludge.
All my bitterness, the pride I had swallowed,
Regret I had ingested and failed to vomit out.

My hand stayed there, amidst the pile of my odds and ends,
The pool of leftovers from my humanity.

After many long hours of fishing around,
My hand grasped an unmatched sock.
Which I discarded on the dirty laundry bin.

And then my fingers gripped old metal.
"Yes. Here is that old wristwatch!"
The one that goes so well with my favorite bathrobe.
The very thing I had been searching for.
When I began my Spring cleaning.


(c)Valentine Media, Sonny Giordano, 2010
This literally about cleaning up your room when Spring comes around. Literally...





(c)Valentine Media, Sonny Giordano, 2010
© 2010 - 2024 WordsAndSmoke
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